


So You Wanted To Dance?

by KanuKoris



Series: The Bishop DeSoto, Long May He Reign [3]
Category: The Outer Worlds (Video Game)
Genre: Assassination plot, Bishop Max, Board Ending, Dancing, Darkest Timeline, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Political Intrigue, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21896917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KanuKoris/pseuds/KanuKoris
Summary: Captain Hawthorne's making the most of Chairman Rockwell's fancy party, sticking out like a sore thumb among the disenchanted Byzantium elite and raising a bit of hell. But Hawthorne's real mission is to pull off some subterfuge and nothing will distract her... except, maybe, a certain Bishop in attendance...
Relationships: The Captain/Maximillian DeSoto
Series: The Bishop DeSoto, Long May He Reign [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567744
Comments: 69
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

“You sure about this, Cap?”

“Are you afraid of a good time, Ellie?”

The Captain’s companion, more of a buccaneer than a doctor despite the medical license, snorted inelegantly. “Hell no. But I spent a youth trying to find brand new ways to ruin parties just like this one. I think in this arena I’ve got a little more experience than you.”

It was true. The doorman and security posted to the entrance of Chairman Rockwell’s estate had physically turned up their noses at the sight of Hawthorne and her entourage, but ‘Dr. Fenhill’ had a pedigree and family name that they couldn’t conveniently ignore. No matter that she had worn her jacket that was extra spiky and boots she had purposefully left bloodstains on. Just to make a statement.

Nyoka, on the other hand, they had turned away with vindictive glee.

“I am Nyoka Ramnarim-Wentworth the _third_. Founder and Director of the Charon Group and two seconds away from kicking your ass.”

“And that might mean something on Monarch, but on Byzantium it means you _get lost_.”

Not wanting to start a street brawl just yet (though the night was young) Hawthorne and Ellie had to talk Nyoka down from making good on her threat. Without an official invitation, they knew the chances had been slim anyway. Nyoka eventually gave up, making the ‘I’ve got my eye on you’ gesture to the snooty doorman before she left, and kept position in a nearby transport lot. Their backup plan had been for her to stay on comm, and have a vehicle ready in case they needed a fast exit out of there.

Hawthorne looked around at the sea of Byzantium elite flowing into the party, her eyes watering at the cacophonous clash of vibrant hair colours, and thought it was a good thing she had an ‘eject’ button on standby.

Ellie seemed to notice her discomfort and gently chucked her shoulder. “You know the trick to surviving a do like this?”

“What?”

As if she were some liquor sorcerer, Ellie had two drinks magically in hand, and pushed them at Hawthorne. “You keep drinking until the room starts spinning. Bottoms up.”

Hawthorne hadn’t planned on drinking before she had made it through the front lobby, but obediently knocked back the neon blue liquid Ellie had procured for her. It was so sweet it made her gag, but a fuzzy warmth rushed to her cheeks, so it was getting the job done.

The Chairman’s manse had an enormous central court that served as the party’s ballroom, and if Hawthorne had to guess, there were a few hundred of Byzantium’s elite in attendance, not to mention the small army of staff that were discreetly circulating. The crush of bodies made Hawthorne feel uneasy. If things went pear-shaped it would be difficult to navigate quickly through the crowd.

Not to mention simply navigating the many personalities and egos around her, something Hawthorne felt ill equipped for.

“Montefort! By Law, you’ve kept that damn moustache longer than your last three wives!” Ellie yelled out to someone in the crowd, and guests physically recoiled from her, giving her a three feet buffer. Ellie didn’t care, cackling as she procured another drink and enjoyed the legroom.

It looked like the doc wasn’t about the delicate dance of courtly manners either.

“Captain Hawthorne, if my eyes are not deceiving me…”

Hawthorne turned to see she was being eyed by a group of Byzantium women, the ringleader cooling herself demurely with a lace and silk fan. Hawthorne reckoned by the slight tremor in their voices that they were all old enough to be her grandmother, but their skin was stretched so taut and altered with various cosmetic modifiers that it was difficult to pin down a number.

“Ladies.”

The ringleader held out a gloved hand, weighed down with several chunky rings. “Aminta Tompkins-Guevara-Xiu the fourth. Seven percent shareholder of Auntie Cleo’s.”

Hawthorne held Aminta’s hand and gave a sketchy sort of bow over it, which sent the old financial duchess tittering. She tapped Hawthorne lightly with her fan, withdrawing her hand with what could have been a coquettish wink.

“My, my, you’re much taller than the aetherwave serials made you out to be. And by Law, ladies, look at her arms. They’re like steel pistons – from all of the mantisaurs you’ve been wrestling out in the desert, I presume.”

Blinking stupidly, Hawthorne was unsure what to do as Aminta (Tompkins-Guevara-Xiu the fourth) began to squeeze her biceps with a lascivious look shining in her eye. The other women, her hangers-on, were eyeing Hawthorne with the same predatory interest, sizing her up as if she were a prize cut of meat.

“Where has Norman been hiding you all this time? I don’t recall seeing you at his garden party in the spring.”

Captain Hawthorne gently extricated her arm from Aminta’s greedy, vice-like grip. “I’m actually here on the Bishop’s invitation.”

Aminta’s eyebrows (modified to be long, feathery and lime green) flew upwards in delighted surprise. “ _Are you_ _now_? That’s right, Bishop DeSoto used to travel with you, did he not? Is that how he’s managed to keep his figure all this time? He’s far too well-cut for your run of the mill preacher.”

One of her companions, a woman whose face Hawthorne couldn’t quite make out as it was hidden behind a pair of circular, dark glasses, whispered conspiratorially to the group. “I’ve heard he comes from common stock. Laborers, if the rumors are true. They tend to be well-built, I suppose.”

Captain Hawthorne was seized with a sudden desire to snap the silly woman’s neck.

Aminta must have seen the frown darken Hawthorne’s face, as she batted away her companion who spoke, pulling out her fan again as if she could gently waft away rising tempers. “The OSI has more capital than you do, Deirdre, so stuff it. Captain, what’s your poison of choice? Do you dance the Boardroom Shuffle? You must partner with me.”

“It’s not the best choooice – _it’s Spacer’s choice_!”

Aminta was distracted momentarily by the loud, off-key singing, and a scowl lit up on her face as they saw Ellie weave her way towards them. Hawthorne breathed a sigh of relief, as Ellie shook Aminta’s arm off her and pulled the Captain away from the coiffed vultures.

“Minty! Thought you would have croaked by now, you old bat,” Ellie said cheerfully.

“Marilyn.” Aminta was fanning herself more furiously, as if Ellie had brought a cloud of noxious fumes with her. “I thought you had forsworn off good society.”

“Don’t see any around me, excusing the Captain here.” Ellie gave them a cheeky wink, taking the Captain by the shoulders and steering her away.

“Thank the Law, Ellie, I thought she was going to eat me alive.”

Ellie snorted, grabbing a drink off a passing tray. “In more ways than one. Couple more minutes and Aminta would have been calling for a priest to make you spouse number eleven. She likes a good honeymoon, that one. And her pre-nuptials are a _bitch_.”

As if Ellie saying the word ‘priest’ had pulled him from the ether, Hawthorne’s eyes suddenly locked onto a man at the other end of the grand court. There were more than a hundred people between them, but the din and commotion of the party seemed to fade into a dull roar in the span of two heartbeats.

She saw the stern line of his face in profile, though there was a spark in his eye as he spoke to someone in the crowd. Then he was turning, disappearing through an open doorway into yet another chamber in the Chairman’s mansion. Leaving just a fading impression of his jaw, his eyes, the set of his shoulders, the darkness of his robes, as Hawthorne continued to stare at the spot Max had just occupied.

“What? Is it him?” Ellie asked.

Finally, Hawthorne was able to drag her gaze away from the other side of the room. “No, sorry. I thought I saw him, but it was someone else.”

Ellie shrugged, her shrewd eyes making their own scan of the premises. “All of upper management tends to break off into the other rooms for their own separate parties. Good chance CFO Matisse is in one of them.”

_Right. Their target_.

Hawthorne sternly reminded herself that she was here for a reason, and it wasn’t to be devoured by bored socialites. Moving with Ellie to get a better lay of the land, they divvied up rooms to cover and split up in order to cover more ground. Focused on her mission to find Rene Matisse, the current Chief of Finance of Spacer’s Choice, Captain Hawthorne did not realize that someone else had noticed her presence in the ballroom.

The Bishop had seen her, though like her he gave no indication that he had, and instead he carried on with the pretense that there was any other reason he had come tonight, beyond stealing that one glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got to the party!
> 
> Max will show up next chapter in a big way, don't worry.
> 
> My Byzantium headcanon and worldbuilding -- here, have it.


	2. Chapter 2

Bishop DeSoto had seen a flash of her hair out of the corner of his eye. Though he had been engaged in a conversation with the Head Researcher of Kolway Pharmaceuticals – and about a newly discovered mutation in their caffenoid base that he was actually interested in – his attention had been pulled to her as if she were a black hole. He was powerless to escape her.

She had shown up looking as if she had just stepped off the Unreliable fresh from another expedition, her jacket wrinkled and her boots dusty. Dressed down, free of any cosmetic modifiers, just freckled and ruddy and raw. He wondered if she knew what a breathtaking sight she made. The Byzantium elite knew it too. Captain Hawthorne may not have realized that every eye slid over her or that she turned heads, because the dyed peacocks in attendance spent fortunes trying to _be_ what Hawthorne _just was_ effortlessly…

Special.

The Bishop knew that he would be caught if he didn’t remove himself from the situation. Even someone who was blind would have been able to sense that his eyes were being tugged elsewhere. When the Head Researcher suggested they join his colleagues in one of the chairman’s sitting rooms, the Bishop readily agreed. It seemed a fine way to spend an hour, drinking Rockwell’s good brandy, and discussing molecular evolution with a room full of scientists.

He could almost – _almost_ – ignore the voice that made his heart suddenly leap when it wondered where the Captain might be.

He was in the midst of a lively discussion with one of the Kolway Research and Development Coordinators, a bright and ambitious woman originally from the Roseway, and they were negotiating shared laboratory space when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a Primate of the OSI, Singh, a man who was normally reliable and dutiful. However, in this instance Primate Singh had a harassed look on his face.

“Bishop, forgive me for the intrusion—“

He waved away the apology. “No need. Is something the matter?”

“Cardinal Petrov is…” the Primate hesitated, feeling awkward about speaking ill of someone who was his superior. “The Chairman’s security thought you would appreciate the opportunity to handle the matter personally, before they had to intervene.”

Though the Primate was trying to step delicately around his words, he only needed to say the Cardinal’s name for the Bishop to get the gist of the situation. Petrov, the Law forsaken bastard was a constant source of trouble. Bishop DeSoto excused himself and swept out of the room, imperiously beckoning for the Primate to follow. Primate Singh had to jog to keep up with the Bishop’s long, urgent strides.

“Where is he?”

“The South gardens,” the Primate was beginning to get out of breath.

“Drinking?”

Primate Singh only had to shoot him a knowing look.

The Bishop growled, “Of course.”

Taking a shortcut through the staff corridors, the Bishop and Primate Singh were out a side entrance and into the Chairman’s South wall gardens in a few minutes. Trying to go through the main throng of the party could have taken the better part of an hour, and the Bishop was hoping he had arrived in time to lay down some damage control.

He turned a corner to see Cardinal Petrov seated on a stone bench. His vestments, a deep burgundy, were in slight disarray, and he had his rosary beads caught around the wrist of a young woman. Cardinal Petrov was tugging on the beads and trying to reel the woman in, as if he were bringing in a catch. A dark, shameful corner of the Bishop’s mind stirred, finding something interesting and appealing about the idea of using the rosary in that way…

…but the rest of the situation was abhorrent and sent a wave of cold fury washing over the Bishop. The young woman had a tight, drawn look on her face as she resisted the Cardinal’s pull and tried not to stumble. Two of the Chairman’s security guards were hovering, their lances pointed forward. The Cardinal, idiot that he was, still had a sloppy, wine-soaked grin on his face, oblivious that he was the only one playing his repulsive game.

“Cardinal.”

The security guards looked relieved as Bishop DeSoto strode up and placed a firm hand on the Cardinal’s shoulder. They were within their rights to remove the Cardinal off the premises, but Cardinal Petrov was placed highly enough in the OSI that it would cause an incident. And their employer, the Chairman, did not care for ‘incidents’. Until the Cardinal did something that was a clear violation of social event conduct parameters, they could be reprimanded for stepping in.

The Presiding Bishop, however, had the freedom to judge and discipline his subordinates in whichever manner he so wished.

“What has happened here?” The Bishop’s voice was deceptively silky, though it was apparent to everyone except the Cardinal that it was a loaded rhetorical question.

“The Cardinal has been asked to maintain an appropriate distance from Miss Angela Mabunza. Twice.”

“We’re just talking.” Cardinal Petrov’s voice bubbled with a clumsy laugh, his fingers still twisted around his rosary beads. Angela Mabunza’s eyes locked with the Bishop’s, and she had an exasperated look on her face. He was surprised she hadn’t run out of patience already.

“Unhand her.”

“I’m not touching her,” the Cardinal insisted, sounding very smug about his own cleverness.

Normally, even though the Cardinal’s idiocy was apparent to everyone, it would have still taken massaging and dancing around euphemisms and technicalities to resolve the situation. Something Cardinal Petrov, who had served in Byzantium decades longer than the Bishop had, was trying to use to his advantage. It was the Byzantium way to bend over backwards and suffer indignities, in order not to cause a scene.

The Bishop stepped forward, pulled a plasma cutter off the belt of one of the security guards, and then sliced the band of the rosary beads in one smooth motion. Angela Mabunza’s arm jerked free, and beads scattered to the ground.

The Cardinal’s mouth fell open and his face twisted with outrage. “What are you playing at—“

But before he could protest further, the Bishop picked up the Cardinal’s wineglass and threw its contents at his open mouth, causing him to splutter.

The people gathered watched in shock, rendered speechless. The Bishop tossed the glass to the ground, his green eyes dark and stormy. He had not raised his voice, but the icy contempt choked around each of his words was palpable enough to sting.

“You are a fucking _disgrace_. You not only besmirch the office you hold, but you embarrass the entire Scientific Order with your lechery and Law as my witness, Petrov, I will not suffer your behavior any longer. Collect yourself and leave before you shame me any further.”

Bishop DeSoto then turned to Angela Mabunza, trying to regain a calm demeanor. She was young and pretty, just shy of twenty because Petrov was a fucking cystipig, and a minor member of an otherwise powerful family that owned shares in both Rizzo’s and C&P because Petrov was a _fucking moron_.

“Miss Mabunza, I cannot express my regret enough. I apologize for the despicable behavior of my Cardinal. He has not represented the Order of Scientific Inquiry tonight.”

She looked relieved to no longer have the full brunt of the Cardinal’s attention on her. She hesitated, considering the Bishop for a moment before coolly imparting, “Cardinal Petrov here was saying he wanted to teach me the Scientician practice of ‘experimentation’. That he uses it frequently in his spiritual counseling. That the Grand Plan has indicated that I should participate in it, with him.”

Despite his herculean effort, Bishop DeSoto could not contain the sound of fury and disgust that escaped with his next breath. It startled Angela Mabunza, causing her to take a step back.

“See? I was just _preaching_ , Bishop. You heard the girl.”

Faster than anyone could anticipate, there was a sickening ‘crack!’ and the Cardinal was sprawled out on the bench, shrieking as he clutched his face.

The guards tensed, their lances igniting with sparks as they armed them, ready for trouble. The Bishop’s shoulders were trembling, his fist clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white.

“Please. Escort. Miss Mabunza. Back to the party.”

The Bishop could barely speak through clenched teeth that felt like they would splinter. Blood was pounding so loudly in his ears, he couldn’t hear anything except for a dull roar. Somewhere, dimly, he sensed that Primate Singh leapt in and hurriedly began ushering everyone away.

He didn’t know when they all left. The world had tunneled to the pathetic man before him, who was bemoaning a bloody nose.

“You void-damned bastard, you could have broken it!”

The Bishop grabbed the front of the Cardinal’s robes and hauled the man up so that they were eye-level. He snarled into Petrov’s face, twisting his grip so that the Cardinal began to choke.

“You would pervert the Universal Equation so you can play out your filthy fantasies? What kind of priest are you?”

The Cardinal struggled, hitting the back of the Bishop’s hand in a feeble attempt to break the man’s grip. “Don’t preach at me, Bishop. I was a Cardinal while you were still a stripling in seminary.”

Bishop DeSoto headbutted the Cardinal in a swift, vicious motion, decisively breaking the man’s nose this time. He released the Cardinal’s robes, letting Petrov fall to his feet in a crumpled heap. “You are everything corrupt and broken within the Order, fat and bloated off your indulgences. I swore to clean up the Scientific Church. I’ll start with you. You’re a fucking cancer that needs to be excised.”

The Cardinal spat out a mouthful of blood onto the ground. “You aren’t the first to think that. You won’t be the last. I’ve outlasted holier bishops than you.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Cardinal Petrov laughed, the blood gurgling in his nose. “I’m here, aren’t I? This is my place in the Grand Plan. As the Architect willed it.”

The Bishop unbuttoned his cuffs and then rolled up his sleeves with brisk tugs. Cardinal Petrov’s smile faded as he saw the dark, manic grin on the Bishop’s face. Bishop DeSoto looked delighted, and not altogether human.

“Yes… you have been placed here precisely to _meet me_.”

The Cardinal’s cries sounded jagged and shrill as they punctuated the wet thumps and cracks that pierced the night air.

Inside the Chairman’s estate, a wide-eyed Angela Mabunza was already recounting how Bishop DeSoto struck down the Cardinal with a violent blow. In the weeks to follow the party, the Byzantium elite would gossip ad nauseum about how the Bishop pummeled the Cardinal with his bare fists, broke his ribs, and mangled his face so severely that the Cardinal needed over twenty cosmetic operations, and would still never look the same.

The Bishop, for all his piety, did not have the ability to read that far into the Grand Plan. He could barely sense in the moment that his hands were sticky and wet with another man’s blood, or that the ‘whoosh’ of air coming out whenever he sunk his fist into the Cardinal’s body was becoming fainter.

He did not sense time pass, until the tempest of his rage finally began to un-knot, and the world gradually came back into focus. He rose unsteadily to his feet, and saw that one of Rockwell’s staff was waiting patiently bearing a basin of warm water and a tray of towels.

Taking a few deep breaths, Bishop DeSoto washed his hands and gently mopped his face, as if he had only spilled some wine on himself, depositing the red-stained towels back on the tray with a cool ‘thank you’.

The server merely bowed and presented him with a fresh drink. The Bishop took it and strolled back into the party, without sparing a glance for the broken man on the ground he had beat mercilessly, and thought to himself that despite a few hiccups, at least the party had impeccable service.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's read and kudos-ed and commented, y'all light up my life. And it lit a fire under me to get this out for an early Xmas update :)
> 
> Headcanon: Despite how uptight he is on your ship, I do think Max was an unconventional choice for Bishop, and was appointed in the hopes that he would shake things up. He's hotheaded, young (relative to the OSI heirarchy), and the injection of piss and vinegar they need.


	3. Chapter 3

“Did you really kill a Mantiqueen?”

Hawthorne shrugged, feeling a little uncomfortable by the scandalized tone of the question. “Yeah. Among other things. The wildlife weren’t too friendly on Monarch, had to cut our way through just to get any place.”

“Fantastic!” CFO Matisse threw his head back with a delighted laugh. “That must have been bloody work. You’re a real barbarian, Hawthorne.”

Every party guest she met had felt the need to tell her some version of that. She had been surprised by a few things, the main one being that most people were excited to meet her instead of horrified. However, they all gave her the impression that they thought she was some exotic, wild warrior woman of the hills. She would have found that flattering, except that their impressions were based off her least spectacular accomplishments. Did killing a few marauders make her a ‘butcher’? Was it so noteworthy to have hunt a few canids? Law, any farm laborer that worked outside of a walled settlement had to interact with the wilderness.

These bizarre, out of touch people found her just as exotic as Hawthorne found them. They ate up her rough and tumble charm, and kept plying her with drinks and delicacies. She felt like she was going to suffocate.

Though _she was_ trying to charm Matisse.

“Are you into being thrown around? I reckon I could sling you over my shoulder and carry you home.” She saw Matisse’s mouth form an ‘oh’, and then a sly grin appear on his face. She gulped a bit more of her drink. Had that actually worked?

“Oh my, Captain, it seems you’ve plucked that thought right out of my mind.” Matisse smoothed two fingers over his moustache, a white-blonde color that matched the coiffed swoop on his head. “Yes! Why not? A party is an occasion to ‘cut loose’, so to speak.”

“Well, shit. Alright.” Hawthorne put down her drink to free her hands, and readied herself to bodily lift up the man, when he surprised her by grabbing her outstretched hand and tugging her towards the door.

“To the dance floor!” He cried, dragging her through the crowd towards the ballroom.

Shit’s sake. One day, Hawthorne would remember that the language on Byzantium was a euphemism layered on top of another euphemism. So this blonde little wisp just wanted a dance?

_Worse ways to get close to a body…_

Matisse and Hawthorne emerged out of the private sitting room she had found him smoking cigars with Spacer’s Choice upper management in, and into the press of sound and bodies. An entertainment droid was playing a selection of old world electronic jazz pieces, and the center of the court seemed reserved for a large dance in the round.

“Do you know the ‘Halcyon Merger’?”

Hawthorne did, but only because she had to learn the dance for a sequence in an aetherwave serial where her character negotiated the successful acquisition of a splinter outfit back into the main fold of Spacer’s Choice. The director had thought ending the finale with all of the characters dancing the Halcyon Merger would have been symbolic.

Matisse took her hand and with the next movement of the dance, they smoothly integrated into the line of other partnered dancers. It was a lively number that needed a large space to be done properly, and had various phases where dancers joined, faced off, or exchanged partners.

“You seem young to be Chief Financial Officer,” Hawthorne said, having to raise her voice to be heard over the music and laughter. They clasped their left and right hands respectively, held them up high and then rotated around each other.

“I’ve been training for it all my life. And Papa finally died.” Matisse didn’t sound very bothered by that fact, deftly switching hands and rotating the other way.

“I see. Then it would have been your father who settled the accounts and exit paperwork when MSI incorporated?”

Matisse shrugged, releasing her and clapping his hands twice before they changed positions and began the next movement where couples weaved through lines of other dancers. “Yes, but that was ages ago. Some assistant took care of all that, an associate accounts underwriter or something. Still works for me, I believe. Oh, what was her name?”

Hawthorne watched him anxiously, silently coaxing his memory with baited breath. She was so close to learning what she wanted. Realizing she would come across as suspicious if she looked at him too eagerly, she cast her gaze to the other dancers.

Her eyes picked out a tall man in the crowd and her chest squeezed so tightly that she almost stumbled, catching herself before she tripped.

“Whoopsie!” Matisse chuckled, holding onto her hand tightly so she could steady herself.

Hawthorne barely heard him. Over Matisse’s shoulder her eyes were stubbornly locked onto the priest – Bishop – who cut an impressive figure in his crisp, black robes, his hands clasped with a young Byzantium man sporting bright blue hair.

“She was a cousin of the Chairman – second cousin, mind you, and _not_ a Rockwell. Oh Law, was it Merrill? Morgan?”

Hawthorne tried to drag her attention back to Matisse, and it felt like an impossible task on the level of trying to pull her ship with just a rope and two hands. And even then she could not keep the Bishop out of her periphery.

He held his dance partner close, and Hawthorne could see that he was speaking, his face tilted towards the young man’s ear as they were locked in some private conversation. Max easily twirled his blue haired partner, launching him forward and then pulling him back with graceful ease, never disrupting the flow of their conversation.

Of course he was leading.

“ _Mercedes_. That’s it. Got a head for numbers, but her nails? Dreadful. It’s a bit embarrassing, people will think I don’t allow my staff to expense a percentage of their cosmetician appointments.”

Though every nerve in her body was flushed and protesting, Captain Hawthorne willed her attention back. She would not be distracted from her mission. “Mercedes what? Rockwell?”

Matisse clucked his tongue disapprovingly, “No, no, I said she _wasn’t_ a Rockwell. She’s lucky to have a position in administration at all. No, her mother’s the cousin and _she_ married…”

Matisse hummed, absently alternating steps with Hawthorne as they pushed away, and then pulled back into formation. “…oh yes! The Saltuna man! Henberg.”

“Mercedes Henberg? And she still works in Finance?”

But before Hawthorne could press him further, Matisse was twirling away and a woman with pink hair twirled into her hold. The dance had moved to a stage where partners were being exchanged in a lively shuffle.

Dancing underneath crossed arms, Hawthorne switched partners again and found herself face-to-face with the blue haired man the Bishop had been dancing with. An impulse struck her and her eyes darted around until she saw the Bishop in a line that was fast approaching for dancers to reclaim their original partners.

With a bit of forceful maneuvering, Hawthorne entangled the blue haired man into another line, and turned in time to be swept down the floor by the Bishop. A hand on her waist, and a quizzical lift of his eyebrow, he pulled her along into the next phase of the dance.

“Captain?”

“Mind if I cut in?” Hawthorne clasped his hand tightly in a grip that didn’t encourage refusal.

Bishop DeSoto had a somewhat smug look on his face, matching her grip. “You have to let me lead, Hawthorne.”

“Do I?” But she relaxed, eyes searing into his as he twirled her and then led them to circle each other with heated steps. She could feel the strength in his grip, could smell some smoky amber liquor on his breath, and part of her felt like crying out in relief that he felt so warm and _alive_.

Hawthorne didn’t realize how tense she had been the entire time, until her body felt like it was melting into Max’s arms, finally relaxing in the presence of someone she knew. Someone who was refreshingly real, in the otherwise overly manicured sea of the artifice-loving Byzantium upper class. Even though she suspected a ridiculous amount of time and grooming went into his hair, it was still _his_ and he was still unabashedly himself.

“I didn’t know you danced, Bishop.”

“I do. And you move like your legs were replaced with two wooden posts. _Breathe_ , Hawthorne.”

That surprised a laugh out of her, and he pulled her back in, arm settling around her waist. He tried to guide her through a series of steps, the hand in the small of her back urging her to lean in with him.

“Remember what I said about letting me lead?” His breath tickled her ear, and Hawthorne felt a swooping sensation in her stomach. Dully, in the back of her mind she realized that in mere seconds she was acting like a complete fool, so willingly throwing aside her task to be swept off her feet.

She tightened her grip and pushed the Bishop down, forcing him to lean back into her embrace, before pulling him back up with a wink. “I’m the Captain. I’m used to leading.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile hadn’t left his lips. “Are you trying to run from someone? Perhaps, throw security off your scent?”

She blinked, caught off guard long enough for him to resume the lead. Hawthorne was forced to take quick steps to catch up and not stumble. “I told you, I wanted a dance tonight.”

“I’ll admit, considering you haven’t started a fight or been evicted from the grounds yet, I’m impressed you’ve managed to stay on your best behavior.”

“You don’t think I can be good when I feel like it?” Hawthorne asked with a purr to her voice that made the Bishop’s eyes snap up to hers. She fancied she could see him gulp, though his high collar hid his Adam’s apple.

Before she could tease him further, she felt him hook around the back of her legs and sweep under her feet. Startled, she lost her balance and fell into his waiting arm. He leaned over her, smirking at the show of dominance.

“Aren’t you the one who complains that being an upright citizen is ‘boring’?”

He was so close his breath stirred the strands of hair that had fallen into her face. For a skipped heartbeat, it felt like the entire party had melted away and they were the only two people in the entire city of Byzantium.

“You’re making a very good case otherwise, Maximillian.”

With that, he slowly pulled her up until she was able to face him eye-level again. A curious, searching look on his face. “I really wish,” he said softly, “that you were just here for a dance.”

Captain Hawthorne felt her throat burn as words, longing and traitorous, were trapped within her chest.

_I wish so too_.

Her fingers snaked up to trace along the side of his face, pulling him closer to her with a feather-light touch. She saw his lips part slightly, and she moved in to whisper a ghost of words she could not say aloud onto them.

When she noticed a spot of blood just underneath his ear. A curious fingertip swiped against it. It was dried and came away under her touch into a rust-colored smear. It was not his. Spooked, his eyes darted from her face to the blood on her fingertip. He looked guilty, caught.

“And have you been behaving yourself tonight, Maximillian?”

He trapped her fingers in his hand, preventing them from exploring further. His eyes were dark, roving. He looked a little like a wild animal trapped in the sights of a hunter, and Hawthorne felt a lick of excitement, warm and tingling, uncoil in her gut. She was drawn to a chase.

“You would lecture me about trouble, when you’ve given into your ‘violent enthusiasm’?” She tested his grip, saw that he didn’t want to let her go so easily, and instead pressed in with a wicked curve to her mouth. He was forced to pull back, lest she compromise the Bishop’s chastity in full view of an audience. Smirking, she bit the air in front of his nose, relishing the torn and slightly panicked look on his face.

“There is a difference, when it is merited,” He murmured, his voice low and silky. “It is immoral when self-indulgent, but when it is corrective, it is maintaining the order of things. It was justice, Captain… and natural.”

She looked up at him, the playfulness fading. “What did you do, Max?”

“Maintained order.”

Hawthorne had given up on dancing, oblivious to the fact that they were disrupting the lines of dancers around them. She took his hands in hers, fingers running over the broken skin on his knuckles. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

A stern look came over his face. “I am the Bishop. It is the privilege and the responsibility of my office.”

“’The strong survive, and the weak shall perish’?” Hawthorne’s laugh was dry and mirthless. “Fuck me, Max, you always were a bit up your own backside, but you never used to pretend you were fighting on account of some Scientician saying. Is that what being here has done to you? Any desires you can’t bury deep enough, you use your religion to excuse?”

His eyes flashed darkly, and Hawthorne could see a slight tremble in his shoulders. She was so good at pressing his buttons, it was a wonder he wasn’t disrobed in the middle of the dance floor. He had a simmering look in his eye, one that she was growing familiar with, like he was torn between wanting to fight her or kiss her.

“Hawthorne, you—“

“Captain! You were meant to merge _left_ , not right, silly!”

Their heads both whipped around to see CFO Matisse cheerfully call out to her from a tangle of twirling dancers. He gestured to the sidelines of the court, where the drink stations were. “I’m absolutely winded, I’ll get you a drink!”

Matisse’s white-blonde head disappeared into the crowd, and Hawthorne felt Max’s grip tighten around her waist. He asked with a sudden interest that was sharp and biting, “CFO Matisse?”

“He’s not a bad dancer,” Hawthorne answered innocently.

“What are you doing with _CFO Matisse?_ ”

Hawthorne wrapped a finger around the gold chain of his office, and pulled him out of the way of an enthusiastic dancing couple. “Your blue haired boy, he’s probably looking for you. Who is he?”

The Bishop refused to have his question evaded so casually. “Edward Mabunza the Second. Why are you interested in Matisse? What in Law’s name are you trying to do here tonight?”

Hawthorne chuckled, twirling her finger around his gold chain. “Maximillian, I didn’t know you could feel jealousy.”

That surprised a smirk to twitch onto his lips. “Nice try, Hawthorne. I know you’re up to something, and I’m going to figure out what. Besides…” His eyes slipped down to her mouth, before lifting back up to her eyes again. “I know there isn't a soul here tonight that I need to feel jealous of.”

Captain Hawthorne laughed, letting his chain slip through her fingers and pulling away from the arm on her waist. “Arrogant!”

“Am I wrong?”

Hawthorne slipped away from him, stepping back into the lines of dancers and disappeared into the crowd with a wink as her only answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, we're back! I hope you all had a good holiday :)
> 
> Headcanon time:  
> You ever watch a British costume drama and there's a dance for all the nobles to marry off their kids, and there are petticoats and suits and long, wistful sighs across a room. Yeah, that.
> 
> Because Byzantium, and all of Halcyon, has issues with overpopulation, I think the idea of having dances as part of a courtship died off a long time ago. And this society's attitudes about gender, traditional gender roles and sexuality is very different, more fluid. So, men partnered to dance with other men, women with women, and everything in between, is not anything noteworthy. Dancing is a luxury activity at this point anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

“Mercedes Henberg, that’s right. Sounds like she’s on the bottom rung of the corporate ladder, though.”

“Too bad…” Nyoka’s voice came in a little distorted over Hawthorne’s communication device, and she thought she could hear a room full of other people on Nyoka’s end. “Though knowing her name will help you locate the right entries in their database. But I suspect you’ll need clearance to get those files. Like upper management clearance.”

Hawthorne could then hear the unmistakable sound of clinking glasses in the background. “Nyoka, are you at the bar?”

“Where else was I going to wait around?”

“ _Law_ – did you at least find us a vehicle?”

Hawthorne could hear the sound of a bottle opening. “Cheers, Captain. And yeah, I got us a real fast ride out of here. Don’t worry! I’m not.”

Even though Nyoka would not be able to see her, Captain Hawthorne rolled her eyes. She held in a sigh and tried to remind herself that she couldn’t complain overly much without painting herself as a hypocrite. Between Ellie and the insatiable socialites, Hawthorne was just on the right side of the line between ‘drunk’ and ‘too drunk to complete her mission’.

_Just_.

“Alright, I reckon I better keep buttering up the CFO then. See if I can wrangle his clearance code out of him with another dance.”

She heard Nyoka’s wry chuckle. “Dancing? Shit. Now I’m pissed all over again I’m missing the party. Ellie made it sound like it’d be boring, but free drinks, dancing, and some bareknuckle boxing? Sign me the fuck up.”

“Boxing? Were you planning on challenging people to duel?”

Hawthorne heard the slam of a glass and Nyoka’s incredulous gasp. “Shit, Captain! You’re at the fucking thing and you don’t know? Some uppity up Cardinal in the OSI got his ass beat at the party. Town’s already buzzing with the word. We got a good view of the medical transport hauling his sorry ass from the bar.”

Hawthorne felt airless as the penny dropped. Was that who had brought out the Bishop’s mercurial temper?

“Trust me, Nyoka, the folks here have an idea of fun that is a touch spooky.”

“You don’t know the half of it, now I’ve seen some spooky shit…” Nyoka’s voice suddenly trailed off, the dead air causing Hawthorne to wonder if her communication channel had been jammed, until Nyoka came in again. “Hey, Hawthorne? I got to go, something just came up… I’ll give you a hail in a bit.”

Before Hawthorne could ask her what was going on, Nyoka had signed off. Without any other information, there was little Hawthorne could do, so she tucked away her communication device. It could have been anything, even just Nyoka deciding to get a refill. Hawthorne took a surreptitious glance around to see that she wasn’t being spied on by other party guests or the Chairman’s security, and emerged out of the sculpted hedges in the gardens.

She had come out for a bit of fresh air and to check in with Nyoka. She had seen Ellie at some point, and had decided to leave the doctor to her own devices as it seemed she was having a grand old time playing ‘kiss-chase’ with shrieking, scandalized guests.

Hawthorne made to re-enter the party, trying to remember where she had last seen Matisse, when her ears pricked to a set of footsteps. Casually, she took a few unnecessary turns through the hedges of the gardens, and noted that the footsteps followed. So, she had acquired a shadow. Finding a side door that lead back inside Rockwell’s manor, she took a surreptitious glance over her shoulder to see that one of the security guards had been tailing her.

Hawthorne stopped in the middle of the door’s threshold, now eyeballing the security guard directly. The guard, a young woman, halted and took position a few feet away as if that was where she was supposed to be posted all along.

“Hey. Guard.” The security guard kept her eyes trained on a spot in the distance and ignored Hawthorne. The Captain pursed her lips and then jerked a thumb indoors. “I’m going inside now if that don’t offend you. But if you’re going to try and stop me or do something, how about we get it over with right now?”

The guard didn’t budge. Annoyed, Hawthorne pushed her way through the door, diving headlong back into the fracas of noise and bodies. She didn’t like having a nanny, especially when she was certain her ‘nanny’ would be the one coming off worse if they ever went to fisticuffs.

The party was still going strong and Hawthorne was amazed that the crowds hadn’t dissipated even a little bit. She had been there for hours, where did these bloated peacocks find the stamina? Scanning the room, Hawthorne finally picked out Matisse in the crush of the main court. There was a line of people waiting for a new station that had begun circulating. One by one, guests were inputting some menu selection on a server droid, and then receiving an inhaler with their drug cocktail of choice.

A drink server passed by and Hawthorne figured a top-up might help her survive a little while longer. She waved them down. “An ounce of Rum and Somethin’, would you?”

To her surprise the server flinched, halted in their tracks, and then fidgeted nervously on the spot. “Apologies, Captain, but I can’t give you Rum and Somethin’.”

“Spectrum Vodka, then.”

“I’m sorry, Captain. I’m not allowed to be serving you any more drinks.”

Hawthorne’s eyebrows rose, unwilling to believe that she had heard the server correctly. “Am I being _cut off_?”

“I’m terribly sorry, Captain Hawthorne.”

If Hawthorne wasn’t so peeved, she would have felt pity for the server, who looked as though they wanted to fidget a hole into the floor and disappear through it. She gestured to the partygoers around her, incredulous. “I’m standing sober in a sea of debauchery and I’m being asked to display some abstinence?”

The server hung their head, unable to do much more than mumble the same apology into their shirt. “Just my orders, Captain, I’m sorry.”

“Orders from who?”

“The Bishop.”

In a flash, Hawthorne saw red. The fury that had suddenly lit on her face must have frightened the server, as they hurriedly scampered away. Captain Hawthorne felt her face get very hot, and she had to take a few deep breaths before the roaring stopped in her ears. What did that Law loving bastard think he was playing at?

In a slightly fouler mood, she made her way over to the ‘cocktail’ line and tugged on Matisse’s sleeve. “Do you want to dance?”

Matisse giggled again, but then gestured an airy hand towards the server droid. “Captain! Law preserve me, you are a bold thing, aren’t you? But I need a pick-me-up, darling, a body needs refreshment, you know?”

“After then.”

He let out a ‘huff’. “I’m bored of dancing.”

Hawthorne felt a bit like a stubborn bull hitting their head against a fence post in order to get through to the other side. Dimly, she knew that her current plan of attack wasn’t the most tactful, but she was too exhausted and fed up to change course now. If Matisse didn’t want to dance, she’d take him to a private corner, knock him over the head, and rifle through his pockets for anything useful.

“Do you want to fuck then?”

Matisse tittered, slapping her playfully on the arm. “Captain Hawthorne! And we don’t even have an intimacy contract! Besides, I can’t ‘make the beast with two backs’ with anyone not employed by Spacer’s Choice.”

She blinked. His words simultaneously baffled and infuriated her.

“What will it take to get you alone?”

He tittered again, looking very flattered, but nervously hiding his smile behind his hand. Hawthorne then saw that his eyes darted around the room, and the skin on the back of her neck prickled. That was generally not a good sign.

“You are saucy! But… maybe you should pay attention to your paramour?”

“My what?” Hawthorne was taken aback.

Matisse dramatically lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I’ve been warned. And I don’t fancy ‘ _going the way of the Cardinal’_ tonight. No matter how much I like those brawny arms of yours.”

Captain Hawthorne didn’t even realize she was speaking out loud as the curse tumbled out of her mouth. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

Matisse laughed as he waved her off. “That’s the spirit!”

That had settled it. Rage was coiling in her gut, flaring white-hot. Though part of her, a _deep_ part of her, had longed to be in his company that night, Hawthorne was going to wring the Bishop’s neck if he had the misfortune to run into her again.

Maybe if she could just find Ellie, they’d be able to tag-team and the doctor could try getting the clearance codes from Matisse...

“Oh, loosen up, you’re being no fun!”

Hawthorne picked up a disturbance by the front lobby, the one spot where people weren’t packed together like Saltuna. Ellie was surrounded by three guards with a drink in each hand, and a kiss puckered up and ready to fire on her lips. It figured that the only breathing space at the party was Ellie’s invisible force field. No self-respecting Byzantium socialite wanted to be seen anywhere near her, just as Ellie had intended.

“I know what’ll put a smile on that face. _Mwah!_ ”

The security guard didn’t look too pleased to have a flurry of kisses planted on his helmet. “Dr. Fenhill, please observe the recommended distance and behavior towards security personnel as outlined in the Halcyon Holdings Corporation Social Conduct Guide, Appendix I-54.”

“I think the man’s trying to say he’s just not feeling a spark, Ellie.”

Hawthorne gently pulled Ellie off the man, and the sawbones threw an arm over Hawthorne’s neck with a delighted, “Captain!”

“Dr. Fenhill has been given the required two requests to leave the premise of her own will. We will now be escorting her.”

Captain Hawthorne tried to position herself between the three guards and the doc, who was nonchalantly clinking her glasses together to ‘cheers’ herself and then knocking them back in a neat one-two punch. The security guards had strained looks on their faces like they had run out of patience a long while ago.

“I’ll get her to stop kissing folk, alright? I’ll make sure she behaves. Ellie – quit being a hellion.”

Ellie gave her a swayed salute. “Yes, ma’am, Captain, ma’am!”

Hawthorne turned to the guards with a hopeful, ‘see?’ expression, but they weren’t having it. “We received a complaint about Dr. Fenhill from another guest, so we have to follow through with their request for eviction.”

“Who’d you piss off, Ellie?”

Ellie shrugged, looking not in the least bit ashamed of herself. “Honestly, the question should be ‘who I haven’t’, and the answer should be ‘no one’ if I did my job right.”

Hawthorne suspected that Ellie had gotten herself kicked out of parties before and that it was altogether likely the doc had just annoyed someone to a breaking point. But she remembered that a Cardinal had been beaten and medically evacuated that night, and no one else had been escorted away by security. Ellie’s crimes paled in comparison.

“Who lodged a complaint with her?” Hawthorne stared down the stoic faces of the guards, a suspicion already in mind. “Was it the Bishop?”

“We are not permitted to name the complainant.” But they shifted their gazes away from her, which was as much confirmation as the Captain needed.

“Vicky’s here tonight? I didn’t even see him! If he’s kicking me out, let me go find him and give him a reason to complain.”

Ellie pushed off from the Captain and made to dive back into the crowd, causing the three guards to descend on her. The aggressive move was all the reason they needed, and they hauled her to her feet, taking each of her arms. Hawthorne tried to step in, but the last guard pointed their lance in her face.

“You’re free to stay and continue enjoying the party, Captain. I strongly suggest you do so.”

Ellie didn’t seem to mind, swinging her legs to and fro as if the guards who were frog-marching her out of the party were a human set of swings. “Don’t fret, Cap, I’ll see you back on the ship.”

“Find Nyoka, she’s at the bar—“ but that was all Hawthorne had time to get out as the guards took Ellie away.

Suddenly the Captain was standing by herself, alone in enemy territory. She was being watched, she had her avenues cut off, and now she was friendless. A chill ran up her spine as she got the impression that it had only taken the Bishop a few moves to have her cornered. Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the room, weighing her options in her mind. Any chances she had of salvaging her mission tonight were slim, but that didn’t dissuade her.

She had built a reputation on coming through despite the odds, after all.

Her eyes lit upon a balcony that overlooked the entire court from the second floor of the manse. It was draped in velvet brocade and gold sash. There were marble statues tastefully framing the balcony. She could see movement from deeper within. A small number of people were mingling in the most exclusive room of the party.

Her mind set, Captain Hawthorne made her way to the staircase that would lead up to the private balcony room. As she began to ascend up the steps, she felt a presence sweep in behind her. She did not need to turn back to look, she could hear the whisper of his robes, and when she did not stop she heard him quietly call out to her.

“Hawthorne.”

She still did not acknowledge him and continued her ascent.

“ _Don’t ignore me_.”

She felt a hand grip her arm and then she whirled around to face the Bishop, her forearm rushing forward to strike his nose if he didn’t move. Wisely, he stepped back and evaded the blow, eyes widening at the unexpected attack. With a sharp tug, she released her arm from his hand and shifted her weight, ready to anticipate his next move. Bishop DeSoto looked taken aback as he recognized she had settled into a fighter’s stance.

“Hawthorne, this is hardly the place to be engaging in a street brawl.”

“Oh? Where did you go fight your Cardinal, then? In the bathroom?”

His eyes shuttered, the stern set of his mouth becoming more pronounced. She could see that he was working to keep his composure. “Come with me, Captain. Come sit in the gardens, or dance with me a spell. Then go back to your ship and leave Byzantium, and let tonight just be that time you caught up with an old friend at a party.”

“ _Max_ …” The rumbling purr in her voice was low and menacing, and it satisfied her to see the flash of fear in his eyes when he picked up on it. “Have you forgotten me already? You should know I don’t respond well to _being minded_.”

He scowled, irritated. “I see that the years haven’t made you any less stubborn. I’m doing you a favor, Captain, and when you’re able to leave this city without being clapped in irons, you’ll see that and thank me for it.”

She lunged forward, invading his personal space and causing him to take a step back. On the staircase, Hawthorne had the rare advantage of being slightly taller than the Bishop and she relished the discomfited look on his face, as he wasn’t used to having to look up at her.

“Thank you? Maximillian, did you play the jealous lover thinking that I would feel _grateful_ to you? Have you done all this thinking I would _get on my knees_ to thank you for it?”

A shiver betrayed him. Her hand snaked out and grabbed the front of his vestments. His hands flew up and tried to pull her away, but they struggled and were locked in a stalemate. She saw his chest heave, his breaths stuttered. His mind knew her seduction was an attack, but his heart wanted to give in anyway.

“I’m not jealous, nor am I your lover,” he spat softly, hand gripping her wrist more tightly in the hopes she would let him go.

When she wouldn’t, the Bishop suddenly dropped his hands from hers and Hawthorne thought he was admitting defeat. She was surprised then, when he brought up his hand to curl around the back of her neck and yanked her to him. She bumped against his chest and felt his teeth by her ear.

“I would infinitely prefer to do this the gentle way. But no matter what I wish, what I _will not_ do is let you act against the Board here tonight. I cannot allow that to happen. If you leave here in irons or in a body bag, you will have forced my hand.”

Hawthorne felt lightheaded, surrounded by his musk and his threats. She shoved against his chest, forcing him to let go of her or tumble down the steps. He watched her with a hawk-like stare, giving her a moment to process what he had said. She glanced up at him, stunned. She didn’t know she could feel betrayed by one person so many times.

She looked torn and her shoulders slumped in defeat. After a moment, he held out his hand to her again, silently asking her to leave peacefully with him.

Captain Hawthorne took him in for a moment and sucked in a long, shaky breath. She then turned around and continued to climb up the staircase, away from the Bishop’s outstretched hand.

“Alex.”

There was a pleading note to his voice, trapped amidst the simmering anger.

She laughed and could almost see the enraged look on his face, though her back was to him. He so hated to be laughed at. She climbed to the top of the staircase where there was a set of double-doors that lead to the room.

“Alex, you know that if you make an attempt on the Chairman’s life they will execute you and I will watch you get gunned down by a fucking firing squad.”

One hand curled around the door handle, Hawthorne finally turned back to look at him with an inscrutable expression on her face. She asked, “Would you mourn for me, Max?” before tugging the door open and disappearing into Chairman Rockwell’s private balcony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you again for everyone who's been reading and commenting along. The response to this has been amazing, and it makes me so excited and encouraged to keep going with this thing that started as some off-the-cuff idea and is now a whole dang series. 
> 
> Anyway, now we're getting into the INTRIGUE.


	5. Chapter 5

When the Captain of the Unreliable stepped inside the Chairman’s private balcony, all heads turned to see her stop just in time before the blade of an Officer’s Spine almost shaved off her eyebrows. She froze, the blade still a hair’s breadth from her face, its corrosive wash making her skin tingle. The Chairman’s personal bodyguard was in full armor and helmet, the eerie faceless visor staring her down.

Over the guard’s shoulder she saw Chairman Rockwell smoking cigars with three others, all senior Board members by the look of their lapel pins. Rockwell looked surprised, and when the Bishop swept in quickly after Hawthorne, his eyebrows rose even higher.

“Rockwell,” Hawthorne began amiably, as if she wasn’t being held at blade-point. “Fancy party. Wanted to thank you for the invite. And admire your view.”

The Chairman glanced from Hawthorne, to the Bishop, and to his compatriots, before finally shrugging and gesturing his cigar towards her. “You’re welcome, Captain. What are you drinking tonight?”

The elite guard removed their blade from her face and resumed their sentry position. Hawthorne silently let out a tensely held breath, her heart hammering in her chest. Rockwell snapped his fingers at a server who immediately came over with a selection of bottles.

The Bishop hovered by her, uneasy. “Hawthorne, it’s time you called it a night—“

But Chairman Rockwell waved a dismissive hand to the Bishop, now relaxing and feeling generous. “She hasn’t even had a drink yet, DeSoto, relax. Grab yourself a drink too.”

Hawthorne neatly stepped away from the Bishop and positioned herself at the Chairman’s left side. She took a tumbler of whisky from the server and smirked into her first sip. The Bishop’s face was rigid, and when he finally deigned to join them it was with stiff movements. She could tell it took every fiber of his being to bend and play along, and it must have been bruising for his ego.

But the Chairman was the one person at the party that Bishop DeSoto would not be able to overrule. Hawthorne smiled. Checkmate.

“So what’s the story with you two?” Chairman Rockwell puffed his cigar, before using it to point to Hawthorne and the Bishop. “You used to fly with the Captain, didn’t you, Max?”

The Bishop took the glass of vodka that was brought to him, but kept it in hand, fidgety and tense. “Many years ago.”

“Bunkmates?” The Chairman was already laughing at his own innuendo.

“No,” The Bishop said through clenched teeth.

“Of course not, you boring bastard.” Rockwell then looked over to Hawthorne. “Is contracting good work? You must be busy, Maverick has been complaining that you haven’t had time to do another serial for him. Wants to do a romance next. Those can be fine, depending on the cast. And you had Layla DuBourg in that one action serial. Fantastic girl, easy on the eyes.”

Rockwell then had a mischievous look cross his face, and he asked slyly, “Did you two practice that chemistry in your trailers, if you know what I mean?”

Hawthorne blinked demurely, impressed that the Chairman could carry on so inanely without running out of breath. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell, Chairman.”

He laughed, growing louder as he grew more at ease. “Touché, touché! She was gorgeous though.”

“And did you often fantasize about me with Layla?”

Rockwell’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked delighted and shocked all at once. “Law take me! Max, you didn’t tell me the Captain was this spicy. You’re alright, Hawthorne. Fuck, there’s precious few people who can take a joke these days.”

While the Chairman laughed, Hawthorne felt her pocket buzz and with a subtle glance she saw that she was getting a hail on her communication device from Nyoka. There was no way she would be able to answer in the middle of the lion’s den, so to speak, so discreetly she switched it off. Nyoka would have to debrief her later.

The Chairman gestured to another server who brought over a box of cigars. “These were a gift from Auntie Cleo’s, they have an exclusive plot in their tobacco farms reserved for this. Only make about four boxes a year. A bit dry, I think this is from their anniversary three years ago, but you’ll never hear them admit that. Fucking cheapskates.”

He laughed as he picked out a cigar for her and had it cut. The server used a jet lighter to start it for her, and Hawthorne took an experimental puff on the end. Smoking was not one of her vices and the smoke felt oily and thick, but she wasn’t going to refuse the Chairman’s hospitality. He was warming to her quickly, ebullient with drink. Hawthorne blew a stream of smoke in the Bishop’s direction with a smirk, before turning her full attention back to Rockwell.

“Now, Hawthorne – Alex? Is your legal name Alexandra?”

The Captain kept an enigmatic smile on her face. “My legal name is ‘Alex’.”

“Maintain that mysterious brand, do you?” Rockwell chuckled. “You’re a bit of a shit disturber. Sophia’s annoyed with you, and trust me, she’s a frightening woman to be on the wrong side of. When are you going to put in an appearance for me, hmm?”

“What did you have in mind?”

A sharp look came into Rockwell’s eye, cutting through the tipsy fog, and he became more animated as he spoke. Hawthorne fancied she caught a glimpse of the charismatic leader that dominated the Halcyon colony come through, a reminder that there was teeth to the figurehead. “Don’t be fucking coy. You’re a working man’s hero, you speak the language of the laborers. While I may be their wise and just father, an authority figure is who you obey, not aspire to.”

Rockwell drew an arm around the back of her shoulders to pull her in for a conspiratorial exchange. She saw the Bishop twitch, and his reaction must have looked like jealousy to the Chairman, who laughed. “Easy, Max, this is business not pleasure.”

Hawthorne thought the Bishop would explode with embarrassment, his entire body rigid as he was torn with staying still or yanking her away from the Chairman. Locking eyes with him, she subtly drew a finger in a straight line across her throat, smirking as she saw him twitch.

“Enrollment for the Lifetime Employment Program in the Roseway are down. They keep finding loopholes around it. Now, you’d think a bunch of eggheads would be all for some new pilot project, but they’ve had this raptidon problem for so long they’re closer to a bunch of marauders. They don’t relate to us anymore. But they look up to _you_.” Rockwell jabbed his cigar in her direction. “Film an announcement with me. It would work best if you said a few noble, morale-boosting things about everyone doing their part and whatnot, but even just standing beside me…”

Hawthorne felt his breath tickle her ear and realized she had leaned in closer to him, subconsciously mirroring his body language. She was secretly impressed, while the somewhat silly, blowhard personality wasn’t a complete façade, the Chairman was more charismatic and manipulative than she had initially given him credit for.

“My rates are high, Rockwell.”

“I can afford them,” he said confidently.

Before Hawthorne could think of a response, she saw the Bishop approach and then pluck her cigar out of her hand. He blew gently on the end, a thin orange ring flaring to life with his breath, before turning it and placing his lips around the end to take in a long drag.

He blew a perfect ring of smoke into her face, before placing the cigar back into her hand. “You almost let that go out, Captain.”

Rockwell had an intrigued look on his face, letting his arm slip free from around Hawthorne’s shoulders, as if he too were subconsciously responding to an unspoken signal. He puffed on his own cigar with a chuckle. “Waste not, want not, Captain.”

Hawthorne was about to fire back at the Bishop, when a shadow arced across the wall of the room. She blinked, barely registering that something had leapt into the balcony when a bolt of laser fire shot into the chest of the Chairman’s bodyguard. She saw the guard collapse to the floor, could smell the burnt ozone of the laser round piercing their armor, and then heard someone in the room shriek.

The Captain whipped around and saw a figure clad head-to-toe in stealth armor, mid-lunge with a laser pistol aimed at the Chairman. The guard was down, the Chairman did not see the danger yet, and she was unarmed. Rockwell was seconds away from being gunned down.

And then time _slowed_.

The world shimmered around her with an odd pink and purple light. There was rippling at the edges of her field of vision, which experience taught her not to try and look at directly unless she fancied letting her mind snap. With time distorting and everything moving in slow motion, Hawthorne inched forward, like trying to swim against a vast and powerful current.

She just managed to close her hand around the muzzle of the pistol, moving it down to the floor, as the ripples began to vibrate faster and fade away. She heard an odd distorted screeching as time sped back up, and just as suddenly – it resumed with a hard snap.

She fell forward, her body’s momentum catching up, and used it to tackle the assailant to the ground. The pistol fired, hitting carpet instead of its intended target. Hawthorne straddled the assassin, pinning their legs and torso under her full weight, and grabbed their shoulders to lift them up and then smack their head into the floor. She heard a pained groan coming through the helmet and hoped it was enough to daze them.

“Fuck! How in the fuck!” Hawthorne dimly heard the Chairman’s outraged cries somewhere above her.

The Bishop was the only other person to leap into action, the Chairman and the senior board members squawking around in panic, and he kicked the pistol away from the assassin’s hand before grabbing their arms. Hawthorne stood up as Max hauled the attacker up to their feet, their arms trapped behind their back.

“Who are you working for?” The Bishop snarled.

Hawthorne gripped the edges of the assassin’s helmet and tugged it off their head. She was met with a familiar pair of light brown eyes and she stumbled back. It was as if someone had knocked all of the wind out of her.

“Felix…”

He looked just as shocked to see her. “Captain? Shit…”

The world felt like it was tunneling again, even though she wasn’t manipulating time. Felix looked frightened, and heartbreakingly thin. She saw a burn mark on his face that hadn’t been there before. Lines around his eyes. The haunted look of someone who hasn’t slept or eaten or lived peacefully in a spell.

“Get him! You fucking imbeciles let an assassin into the building? You let him get that fucking close to me? Get him out of here! The second your shifts are over, you’ll be lucky to be unemployed and not shot on fucking sight!”

The Chairman was bellowing, his face almost puce with rage and the fear of having so narrowly avoided death. Security guards burst into the room, and before she could do anything, Felix was being yanked out of her reach. She reached out for him helplessly, seeing just a flash of his beseeching eyes before he was dragged out of view.

“By Law… Captain, if you hadn’t been here, well, I… thank you.” The Chairman stumbled through his gratitude, the adrenaline catching up to him and causing his hands to shake. “Fuck, someone get word to the Adjutant…”

Hawthorne barely heard him, staring off into the distance. She felt a hand on her shoulder, heard Max’s voice call out her name, but she was lost somewhere, fingers grasping empty air where Felix had just stood.

***

When Hawthorne finally emerged from Chairman Rockwell’s manse, she stepped out the front gates being hailed as a hero. News of the bold attempt on the Chairman’s life had spread lightning fast, and the newscasters had descended upon the party. There was streamed footage of the gathered guests calling out to the Captain and trying to cheer her on, as she walked stone-faced through them to the exit. The cameras could not capture that she felt a heavy weight on her chest, dragging her down.

She stepped out into the street to see that Nyoka and Ellie were already waiting for her in a speeder transport. They had grim looks on their faces to match hers. Everyone had sobered up.

“It was—“

“Felix, yeah.” Nyoka grimaced as she disengaged the brakes and they sped away from the Chairman’s estate.

“How did you know?”

“Saw him. Didn’t believe my eyes at first, but tracked him around the streets until I lost him climbing over Rockwell’s wall. Tried hailing you.” Nyoka let out a gusty sigh, anger and disappointment simmering in that sound. “Fucking idiot. If I’d just caught up to him in time…”

Hawthorne felt like she had been delivered another soft blow to the gut. She remembered her communication device going off when she was with the Chairman. If only she had been able to answer it. “It’s not your fault,” she said dully, though she knew those words were meaningless.

“Felix is a big boy,” Ellie said, a bitter tinge to her voice. “He made his own decisions.”

“What’s going to happen to him? Does he even get a trial?” Nyoka asked.

“They’ll execute him.” Hawthorne felt hollow, and a bit like she was sleepwalking. “He tried to kill the Chairman. There’s no surviving that.”

Nyoka looked stunned and glanced at Ellie, as if hoping the doctor would say something to contradict Hawthorne. Nyoka was one of the most worldly people Hawthorne had the pleasure to know, but she was a Monarch native and unused to the very particular brand of cruelty capable in Halcyon’s capital.

“Fucking moron. We don’t hear from that asshole in years and this is the first thing that happens? I bet he fell in with some other brainless revolutionary. Just to get himself killed. Fuck – _I’ll_ fucking kill him!” Nyoka punched the steering wheel, furious.

The rest of the drive was silent.

When they arrived at the landing dock, it was to see a tall figure waiting by the Unreliable. Ellie let out a low whistle, and Nyoka tilted her head in question. “Max? Shit, is that Max?” Hawthorne surprised her by suddenly quickening her pace, marching over with a steely look that Nyoka recognized was a woman itching for a fight, and she grabbed the back of the Captain’s jacket with an exclaimed, “Whoa! Easy, Cap.”

He held out his hands in peace. “I just want a word.”

“Here’s one – _fuck you_ ,” the Captain spat, struggling out of Nyoka’s grip. Moodily, she tried to shove past him and open the hatch door to her ship.

“Stay in Byzantium tonight,” he said, undeterred. “Adjutant Akande has requested an audience with you tomorrow.”

“I don’t care,” she said, though she froze on the entry ramp to the Unreliable. Her eyes caught Ellie’s, who had a spooked look on her face. They both knew that a request from the Adjutant was perilous to ignore.

“I owe you an apology, Captain.” Her eyes snapped up to his face, disbelieving, but there was no mockery. He looked sincere. “And I wanted to make sure you were alright. I think tonight’s events took everyone by surprise.”

Hawthorne finally gave in, too exhausted to keep fighting, and with a nod of her head she signaled for Nyoka and Ellie to go inside. They eyed the Bishop warily, but other than a curt “Vicky” from Ellie, they disappeared inside the Unreliable peacefully. Hawthorne slumped against the hatch door, letting her head lean back against the hard surface, feeling bone-weary.

He looked at her with a warmth and concern in his eyes that she didn’t think she’d be able to stand. “Are you alright, Alex?”

“Why does it sound like you care?”

“Because I do,” he said simply.

He tried coming closer to her, but she held up a leg, pressing her boot against his impeccable vestments with a warning shove not to cross her boundary line. He frowned a little at the dirt mark it left on his robes, but otherwise kept his distance.

“I misjudged you. I thought your intention with the Chairman was very different tonight. I should have remembered that Captain Alex Hawthorne is in the business of saving lives, not taking them. I’m sorry.”

A pained smirk twisted onto her lips. “That’s me. Always there to save the day.”

“Thank the Law.”

There was a gentle smile on his face, and a light in his eye that made her want to smile back. The man standing before her looked so much like one she knew, one she had missed, one she wanted to sink into.

But tonight had taught her that everything on Byzantium was artifice and layers upon layers of deception. “When will they execute Felix?”

He was surprised by the turn in conversation, but answered gamely, “They will sentence him first. But I would be surprised if it was not resolved before the end of the week.”

Hawthorne felt her gut twist. He sounded so sanguine, using those softened euphemistic terms like ‘resolved’ to describe cold-blooded killing. He had never sounded more like a Board puppet to her than he did in that moment. “That’s the Law’s justice. You sound pleased. And it could have been me. You expected it to be me, and to watch as they took me away to my death.”

He frowned, his eyes darkening. “It wasn’t you.”

“You know that I’m no innocent. I had my own agenda at the party tonight.”

He did not look surprised and softly said, “I know. But whatever thievery or misdeed you had planned tonight, it wasn’t murder. The Universal Equation placed you in that room to save the Chairman’s life. You stopped Felix.”

“I did.”

Hawthorne banged her fist against the hatch door to signal to ADA to open it. She saw the familiar hold of her ship, her tired body aching to finally rest, but she turned to look back at the Bishop as if in afterthought. She crooked a finger and beckoned him towards her.

He took a cautious step forward, one foot on the entry ramp. Hawthorne curled a finger around the gold chain that hung on his neck and pulled him in. She could smell the lingering cigar smoke on his breath, saw his lips part slightly in anticipation, as she bent her head to whisper in his ear.

“But I should have let him kill Rockwell.”

She stepped back from him, crossing into the safe boundary of her ship’s hold, and punched the switch for the hatch door. She saw a flash of his eyes, dark and simmering, before the hatch closed shut, locking away the Bishop, Byzantium, and the world for at least the rest of the night.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eep! We come to the end. Also, why did it take me this long to use Tactical Time Dilation? I dunno!
> 
> *Old-timey newsreel voice*  
> What will happen when the Captain faces off against the Adjutant? Will she be able to save Felix from a sticky fate? Will she be able to gain the upper hand with the Bishop? Tune in next week to find out!
> 
> Or, in other words: first we need to pay a visit to Akande (yesss) as our Captain gets pulled further into the hellscape that is Board politics. And then we'll get to it......the confession fic. Because, as I've stated previously, I'M TRASH and I wrote all this stuff for a shitty priest to write some goddang confession shit and I don't know why you all indulge me, but bless you. Everyone one of you.


End file.
